


And Yet I Live

by SouthBound



Series: The Chapters of Overlook Coast [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternative Universe - FBI, Angst, Basically every AU put into one, Best Friends, Blood and Gore, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Memory Loss, Near Future, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-15 13:00:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7223311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthBound/pseuds/SouthBound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in an Alternate Universe where Overwatch is a specialized FBI team contracted to eradicate the crime epidemic of Overlook Coast. </p><p>--</p><p>One night, the staff of St. Mercy's General Hospital is pleasantly surprised to learn that their resident John Doe is finally waking from his six month long coma. </p><p>He has no recollection of who he is, or why someone had tried to brutally murder him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

“You ever think about leaving?”

Ana Amari turned to look at her partner, and gave her a quizzical look. However Aleksandra wasn’t even looking at her; her attention was on the road ahead and the surrounding cars that always managed to slow down to a crawl whenever a squad car was within sight. She watched as Aleksandra gave out a frustrated humph, and then the other woman started to turn down another street in an attempt to avoid the heavy night traffic.

What had brought this question along? Did Ana's partner really think she was old enough to retire? She would have been offended by the implication if Aleksandra wasn’t her best friend and long time partner in crime, or so to speak. Ana shook her head and thought nothing more of the impromptu question. If Aleksandra wasn’t going to elaborate, then it wasn’t a serious question in the first place.

She brought her attention back out onto the gritty streets they were currently patrolling. Still, Ana found herself leaning forward and messing with the squad car’s police scanner, turning its volume down a bit in case Aleksandra wanted to elaborate. The woman did not.

After a few more minutes of driving, Aleksandra finally pulled the squad car down into a garbage filled alley, and she turned off the engine. In the car's idle state, the lights inside dimmed and the noise of the city overtook the now absent hum of the engine. The two partners returned to the old game of keeping a sharp eye on any suspicious activity. Knowing their current run of luck, there would be at least one unfortunate shooting in this part of Overlook Coast. Whether it would be at some poor soul, or at them, was the mystery.

This part of the city had fallen onto hard times, even before the ever apparent trend of increasing crime rates. Copperstone was a poor man’s working district, which hadn’t seen much in the way of a work force since most of the country’s labor pool had been outsourced to foreign countries. Now it was a skeleton of what it once was, and home to all assortments of drug dealers, muggers, and the occasional murderer. No one liked patrolling the Copperstone neighborhood, especially the night shift, but usually it was Ana and Aleksandra that wound up pulling the short straw.

Ana hated the Copperstone patrol, and she knew Aleksandra hated it too. This place was too dangerous, especially for any officer of the law. One of these days, one of them was bound to get shot and killed. Why they didn’t just tear down the whole neighborhood and rebuild it from scratch eluded her. It was nothing more than slums in the making at this point.

If Ana could just get through tonight, then she’d have the whole weekend off without worrying about work. The station’s captain had accepted her request for time off, and Ana knew Fareeha would enjoy having her mother with her for her birthday. Perhaps she and Fareeha could do something special for the rare occasion…

Aleksandra coughed, bringing the woman out of her thoughts. “I’m serious Ana, do you ever think about it? Leaving?"

So Aleksandra had been serious after all. “What do you mean? Leaving the precinct?”

“No, I mean the city.” The woman said as she shook her head. She reached for her Styrofoam cup of coffee and took a few sips of it despite how cold it must have been at this point. “Have you ever thought about taking little Fareeha and moving somewhere else. Somewhere… quieter. Safer. Somewhere a hell of a lot safer than here, where the only danger you’ll find yourself in is with ticketing expired parking meters.”

“If Fareeha heard you call her little, you wouldn’t hear the end of it, Zarya.” Ana joked, smiling slightly at the thought of her daughter. She was almost 17, practically a grown woman at this point. Ana then shook her head, doing her best to bring her thoughts back to the conversation. “I don’t think we can ever leave; she loves the city too much. She’ll hate me if I take her away from it.”

“Hmm, it sounds like you love the city too.” Aleksandra said, glancing over and giving Ana a smirk.

“What can I say? I was raised here, Zarya.” Ana said, laughing as she caught the other woman’s smirk. “It may be quickly turning into a dump, but it’s still my home.”

Silence fell between the two women as they sat in their squad car. Their conversation was momentarily forgotten as Ana spotted a group of individuals across the street from them. They watched intently before deciding that it was just a bunch of drunken bar crawlers, on their way over to the next dive bar. At the moment, they weren’t a threat yet, but perhaps they’d have to stay in the area to make sure none of them would do anything foolish.

Ten minutes passed, and Ana let out a long, tired sigh.

“And what about you?” Ana suddenly asked, turning to face Aleksandra.

“What about me?”

“Are you thinking about leaving Overlook Coast? Is that why you’re asking me?”

Her partner was silent as she fell deep in thought. Judging by the look on the woman’s face, she had been surprised by Ana’s question. Perhaps Aleksandra never thought about leaving before, and now was the first time she was entertaining the idea. Ana patiently waited for her answer.

Finally Aleksandra spoke up.

“No, not yet. I can't leave, not when Overlook is like this.” The woman answered quickly, shaking her head with determination. Ana watched as Aleksandra’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, and then loosened after her knuckles had turned white. “The city is a wreck, but there’s still hope for it. There’s still so much I can do to help out.”

“Yeah… you’d think Overwatch would’ve had it handled at this point.” Ana suggested, albeit somewhat sarcastically.

Aleksandra gave her friend a mirthless laugh. “Pff, Overwatch. You’re calling that namby-pamby group of Feds by that ridiculous nickname now? You’ve lost some of my respect, Amari.”

Ana knew that Aleksandra didn’t really mean it, despite the serious tone she had used. No, Aleksandra knew of Ana’s real opinions on the FBI crew that had taken over the hearts and minds of Overlook’s citizens. The Feds had practically enthralled everyone when they first arrived in the city, giving out big promises of eradicating crime and bringing Overlook Coast back to its formal glory. A big promise that they hadn’t lived up to yet, despite their overstayed welcome.

Just thinking about the "Overwatch" FBI team immediately frustrated Ana. She remembered the day the city’s mayor had announced the FBI team’s arrival, so many months ago. The general public had been overjoyed that the Federal Government was finally getting involved with the city’s rising crime predicament. However, every police officer in the tri-county area had been furious. For the past 10 years, every officer in the Overlook Coast Police Department had been busting their ass trying to save a dying city. And then suddenly this group of so called "superior" Feds showed up, saying that they would eradicate all of the city's crime within a single year.

That had been an insult to Ana’s entire career as a police officer, and she wasn’t one to forgive easily.

Still, Ana let out a defeated sigh.

“You’ve got to admit, Zarya. After 5 months, the people still love them. Or at least the idea of them.” Ana muttered under her breath.

“Just you wait, Amari. Give ‘Overwatch’ another two months, and soon the people will be singing a different tune.” Aleksandra said. She then gave off a stiff laugh full of contempt. “Hopefully one that will call for their heads.”

“Well, we can only hope.” Ana said, agreeing with her partner.

At that, Aleksandra gave her partner a genuine laugh. The two fell silent soon after, completely intent on focusing on their nightly patrol. Now that the sun was setting, the true nature of Copperstone was about to be exposed. Now was when their real work began.

Already, Ana could see figures lurking around in the dark, hiding from their hawk-like gaze to perform illegal transactions and misdeeds. Of course, whenever Ana or Aleksandra readied themselves to hunt down said figures, they would have disappeared. And this was the frustrating game they played.

They changed locations every two hours, driving the squad car down a different street to another undesirable part of the neighborhood. As the night turned into early morning, the deserted streets grew eerie, otherworldly even. Ana always felt out of place in Copperstone, and she knew that the feeling of eyes watching over her was not just in her imagination. She had no doubt that the more powerful gangs always had eyes on them whenever they patrolled, always paranoid but never idiotic enough to outright attack officers of the law. No, they kept to their shadows like the vermin they were.

As far as patrols went, tonight was considerably an uneventful night. Early on, they had managed to halt a break in attempt, but the perpetrator had managed to escape during the pursuit. Ana and Aleksandra were talented and experienced officers, but even they hesitated to climb over a spiked fence like the ruffian had. While Ana regretted letting the would-be thief escape, at least they had managed to stop him.

But other than that, the two partners spent most of the night in their squad car. And for once, Ana didn’t mind that. They had about four more hours left on their shift before Craig and Samuels would take over, and then Ana would head home to catch up on a few hours of sleep before spending breakfast time with her daughter.

However, all thoughts about making pancakes and sausages disappeared from Ana’s mind when the squad car’s scanner buzzed to life. Through the crackle of the machine, Ana managed to make out the dispatcher’s voice.

“Car 56, this is Control. Do you copy, Car 56? Over.”

“Listen. That sounds like Cortez.” Aleksandra muttered as she glanced over towards Ana.

Both of their expressions grew serious. Usually they didn’t get called in while they worked the patrol shift. The only exception to the rule was when no other active squad cars could answer the emergency. Either that, or they were the closest to the scene of the crime.

Ana grabbed the squad car’s hand held radio. “This is Car 56, answering your call. What is it, Control? Over.”

“I just got an anonymous tipper that phoned 911. Said they were hearing disturbing noises in Southwestern Copperstone. Go check the warehouse at the intersection of Gladesview Avenue and Charlington Street.” Cortez radioed. “Be advised, anonymous tipper believes that it sounded like a possible homicide, suspected gang involvement. Over.”

Ana couldn’t help but share a slightly nervous glance with Aleksandra. This hadn’t been the first time they answered a similar call, and she doubted that it would be the last. But neither of them liked going into situations this dangerous when it was just the two of them. Usually a call like this should involve a lot more officers.

“Prepare an ambulance for us, Control. Tell them to be ready to standby.” Ana ordered into the radio. Immediately Aleksandra started the squad car’s engine with a crank in the ignition. The car roared to life. “We’ll radio them in incase we find any wounded. Over.”

Immediately the deserted parking lot they had been scouting in flashed with life from the spinning red and blue hazard lights atop the squad car. Their siren screeched in the air, piercing through the quiet night as it matched the sound of the car’s squealing tires. Aleksandra throttled the engine, pulling them out into the dirty streets. Any semblance of a quiet night had been instantly shattered. 

“Already have one on standby, Officer Amari. First responders are awaiting orders on channel 6. Over.”

“Roger Cortez, we are en route to the address. I copy, we are en route.”

“Be careful Amari. You too, Zarya.” Cortez added. “Tipper sounded severely traumatized. They described the disturbance like it sounded ‘like someone was getting their organs carved out’. Please come back in one peace. Over.”

“We always do, Cortez. Car 56, over and out.”

The streets were empty, and Aleksandra ignored the traffic lights on their way as she sped towards their location. They made it to the address within minutes, yet Ana feared that they were already too late. Aleksandra pulled into a hard stop, hitting the curb hard enough to bounce the car.  Aleksandra jumped out of the squad car, not even bothering to turn the engine off. She reached into the back of the squad car and pulled out her shotgun. Ana was not that far behind her partner, her pistol already in her hands. The car’s mobile radio was safely fastened onto Ana's belt, readily available incase they'd have to radio for backup or medical support.

"Are you wearing your bullet proof vest?" Ana quickly asked; they had no idea what they were walking into.

"Always am. Come on, we need to hurry." 

They quickly found the warehouse in question.  They weren't surprised to see that the front door leading inside had already been busted open by pure brute force. This was not a good sign. Ana and Aleksandra instantly fell into their routine, each one taking point as they systematically entered the building, clearing each room and hall as they searched for the intruder and their supposed victim. The warehouse was large, and there were many side rooms anyone could be hiding in. They had a lot of ground to cover.

Finally, they entered the main room. The place was like a god damn maze with its contents stacked up into towers and several rows. Ana felt her spine tingle in trepidation; there was bound to be a lot of good blind spots for the perpetrator to hide behind as they made their rounds.

“I’m clear over here.” Aleksandra whispered, bringing Ana back to the present.

“Clear here.” Ana answered her.

“Clear.”

They cleared through several more areas before they reached the final verdict. The place was deserted; no one was here. Whoever had broken in was no longer on the premises. Ana couldn’t help but swear under her breath. She knew from experience that the chances of finding and catching the trespasser would be almost impossible. And on the off chance that they did catch them, they’d manage to worm their way through the system, and be back on the street within days.

 Aleksandra swore in Russian before she put the safety back on her shotgun. “I don’t like this, Amari. Something feels wrong. I really hope this isn’t a wild goose cha—”

Aleksandra didn’t get the chance to finish her sentence. She stopped, freezing into place as she made her way into the next aisle. Ana watched as her friend let in a short gasp in terror. Fear took over Ana, and she couldn’t help but let the panic in her bubble and grow. Ana already feared the worst for Aleksandra. She did not want to watch a friend die today.

Ana quickly made her way over, hoping to discover that her partner hadn’t just stumbled into something that would get both of them killed.

What she found instead made her stomach twist with unease. The ground seemed to shake beneath her feet as she lost her balance. If she had had anything substantial for dinner, Ana was sure that she would have thrown it up.

Ahead, on the far side of the room were the remains of a young man. Ana felt her stomach twist again when she realized he couldn't have been older than 25. He had been propped up against the wall, which had been splattered with his own blood. The position almost seemed to be a warning for whoever had found him, and Ana's mind supplied an accurate translation: "don't mess with us, or else". A pool of blood was forming around the poor boy. It was steadily growing the longer both officers stood there in horrified shock.

The man had a large head wound; dark congealing blood was already covering half of his face. Ana could see how deep the wound went, and she paled in disgust. The man’s legs had been painfully mutilated, torn and cut up in several areas. They were blade wounds, large ones that were deep enough to cause permanent damage if they didn't succeed in taking his life. It must have been the same weapon that had given him the head wound.

But what horrified Ana the most was that his right arm was missing. It was completely gone from just below his shoulder. The missing limb was nowhere to be found in the immediate area.

Some sick individual had butchered the boy, and then taken his arm as a trophy. 

This was just… gruesome. Something that belonged in a horror movie, or in Ana's worst nightmares, but not in real life. Nothing could have ever prepared Ana for this. She was sure that if she had the chance to, she would have just stood there in shock for the rest of her life. Fortunately Aleksandra had managed to snap her out of her nauseous trance.

“Ana, quick! He’s breathing, he’s still alive! Call for medical support! We’ve got wounded!” Aleksandra shouted as she ran over to the victim’s side. She quickly ripped off her shirt, exposing the bullet proof vest underneath, and pressed the article of clothing against the victim’s remaining stump of an arm. She was trying her hardest to stop the bleeding. “Call for help now, damn it!”

Within half a second Ana had her radio in hand, calling for the ambulance team Cortez had prepared for them. As soon as she assured the EMRs that it was safe to enter the building, Ana rushed to her partner’s side. She quickly undid her own shirt and applied pressure on his legs, but she feared that it would be useless.

He was just losing… so much blood.

And yet to Ana’s pure shock and horror, the boy’s eyes were fluttering open. They were almost glazed over from the amount of pain he must have been in. Ana hoped that the shock from the wounds would numb some of the pain for him.

He started to whimper in pain. 

“Stop, save your energy. Focus on staying awake.” Ana ordered the young man as she tried her best to keep eye contact with him.

_“Please… help…”_ His voice was weak, almost nothing but a hushed breath. He let out a wheezed cough, as he allowed for his head to slump over. _“Don’t want… to… die.”_

“You need to stay with us if you don’t want to die. Alright? Just listen to me speak. Listen and follow my orders.” Ana said, trying to make her voice as confident as she could make it. But instead she found that her words came out trembling and jumbled together. “If you want to live, you need to listen to me.”

_“Help…”_

Aleksandra faced the boy, putting only a three inch distance between them. “What’s your name, boy? In order to help you, we need your name.”

But the man wasn’t listening to Aleksandra. Already his eyes were closing again, and his pained breaths were slowing in consistency.

Ana felt her heart jump, and she sucked in a short breath. “No! Stay with me! You need to fight this!”

Seconds later the Emergency Medical Response team arrived on the scene, flooding in through the doors in a frantic wave. They pulled the two officers away, shouting hurried words as they assessed the extent of the man’s injuries. They placed him on a gurney and wheeled him out to the waiting ambulance outside, sparing no time to ask the officers what had happened. Aleksandra and Ana followed the medical team closely. And when the ambulance was pulling back onto the street, they followed in their squad car, the pair of sirens emptying the road ahead of them.

They followed that ambulance all the way to the nearest hospital.

But Ana feared that it was already too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to try something big, and oh boy did my imagination go to town. Basically this fanficiton is just a conglomerate of all my favorite tropes of all time, all pulled into one complete story line. Cops n Crooks? Check. Memory loss/amnesia? Check. Modern and University AU? Check. A band of misfits forming a family? Check. 
> 
> I know that it probably won't make much sense right now, but I can see the picture clearly in my head. And hopefully in time it'll become clear for everyone. There's a lot of story that I want to tell, and hopefully I can manage writing it before running out of steam.
> 
> This fic is going to be so long I already know it.


	2. Chapter 2

_Six months later…_

\------

“ _… lo there…”_

_“… ou waking up…”_

_“… ome on, I can see you clenc_ hing your face together. You can’t fool me.”

He fluttered his eyes open. The lights above were almost bright enough to blind him immediately, and he groaned as he shut them again. But it was too late; the quick flash of the lights garnered him a massive, splitting headache. He felt as if he was in the middle of recuperating from a horrible head cold. His head felt like it had met the wrong end of an ice pick, his body felt numb and disconnected, and the bed he was resting in felt too comfortable and inviting to remain awake.

  
All he wanted to do was go back to sleep.

  
Unfortunately for him, the lady who woke him up did not grant him that luxury. She opened the window's shutters with one steady pull of its tethers, allowing for more natural light to flood into the room. He grumpily groaned again in response and twisted his head away from the window.

  
"Come on, you've been sleeping for long enough." She said as she quietly sat down by the bedside.

  
Despite his best efforts, sleep would not return. Hesitantly, he opened his eyes again, accepting his fate. This time the light did not blind him, however his eyesight was foggy and for the first few seconds he could only see vague shapes and colors. Thankfully it only took a few minutes for his eyes to regain focus. The first thing he saw clearly was the woman who had been coaxing him back to consciousness. He focused on her, trying to get his brain working on the smaller details in an attempt to wake up some more.

  
The first thing he noticed was her kind and patient face, which was framed with wavy blond hair that had been messily put into a ponytail. Her blue eyes were bright and friendly, but calm in a way that was similar to a mother caring for her child. She was tall, he could tell even with her sitting down beside him. The woman watched him as he worked through her facial features and she gave him a small grin for encouragement. He could not return her smile.

  
She wasn't familiar to him.

  
He then let his eyes wander about, trying to take in the room he was in as well. It was plain, with painted off white walls that were only decorated with one framed print of San Francisco's Golden Gate Bridge. An old, worn out couch had been placed beneath the print, and a newspaper sat on one of the cushions folded over for the crossword puzzle. In the far corner of the room was some kind of plant, but he doubted that it was real when he saw the gleam off of its too green leaves. Above the two hung several long fluorescent lights, which had been what blinded him when he first awoke.

  
He then looked over towards the room’s only window, where he saw a pale blue, cloudless sky between a sparse couple of skyscrapers. He could not see anything else, not even the sun. Beside the window was a small cot, already dressed with the pillow fluffed, and he briefly wondered if that was the woman's bed. But then he noticed the medical equipment between this cot and his.

  
A heart monitor, an intravenous drip, a defibrillator.

  
He was in a hospital.

  
The woman noticed his realization, and her kind grin disappeared. It was instead replaced with a look of concern. She scooted herself forward in an attempt to calm his rising panic. He tried his best to trust her; he noticed she was wearing a lab coat and a name tag, so she must have been his doctor.

  
"Easy there. My name is Dr. Angela Ziegler, you're in safe hands." The woman said softly, confirming his suspicions.

  
"Wh-where am I?" He asked. He was startled to find that his voice felt coarse, as if he hadn't used it in some time. It sounded foreign to him.

  
"You're in St. Mercy General Hospital, in downtown Overlook Coast, California. Do you know where that is?" Dr. Ziegler asked him.

  
He nodded his head. He knew of the city. With that, some of the tension in the doctor's shoulders rolled off of her. Yet she was still biting her bottom lip in suspense. Her eyes were watching him carefully, and he realized she was waiting for a reaction from him. Something was really wrong, but he had no clue what. To be honest, learning that he was hospitalized had been enough to put him on edge.

  
"Why am I in the hospital?" He asked, his voice cracking in subtle fear. Why couldn't he remember why?

  
It took her a second too long to answer, and it made him even jumpier. Her expression grew serious, and she gave him a sad frown that did nothing to make his spirits rise. He felt paralyzed as she spoke.

  
"You were in a horrible accident six months ago. You've been in our care since."

  
"Six months ago? Why am I still here?" Why would he have been hospitalized for so long?

  
Dr. Ziegler fell silent again, and then she let out a long sigh. "You've been in a coma for the entirety of your stay, sir. It's a miracle you've even awoken after all this time."

  
A coma? He'd been in a coma for six months straight?!

  
Suddenly he was breathing too rapidly, a sign that he was about to have a panic attack. Beside him the heart monitor was beeping angrily, which was only startling him more. It must have alerted someone within the hospital because within seconds a pair of nurses in purple scrubs entered the room, shouting rushed words he couldn't quite make out. They surrounded him, both going to each side of him, reaching for equipment that would calm him down. They did nothing to help him.

  
Dr. Ziegler rushed to his side. Her expression remained calm, but he could see the slight panic in her blue eyes.  She kneeled down beside him and grabbed his hand. She spoke calmly but confidently, forcing him to pay attention to her. And while her words were also lost on him, her calm and deliberate tone eventually helped the rising panic subside.

She kept a hold of his left hand with both of hers, rubbing soothing circles over his knuckles. Dr. Ziegler kept her eyes on his, not allowing for him to look at anything but her. The two panicking nurses were completely forgotten from his mind. They disappeared as a pair of purple blurs in his peripheral vision.

  
Eventually Dr. Ziegler’s words started to make sense to him.

  
"You need to calm down. Listen to me, you need to calm down. Take slow breaths with me." She ordered. "Breathe with me now."

  
He did as he was told. He tried his best to match her long, deep breaths. Most of the time they were still too short, and were incredibly uneven. He could feel his chest rise and fall at irregular intervals, which rattled his entire body. But never once did his eyes leave hers. As time passed he could feel his heart rate begin to drop, and the tight hold he had on her hands disappeared. Dr. Ziegler let his hand drop to his side. Still, he grasped the cot's covers in an attempt to ground himself.

  
Minutes passed, and eventually the nurses left after Dr. Ziegler gave them a stiff nod. The doctor waited for him, ever so kind and patient.

  
He finally forced himself to speak up. "Six months is a long time, Dr. Ziegler."

  
She gave him another sad frown. "It is. I'm sorry you had to learn it this way."

  
"What happened?" He asked.

  
"I was hoping you could tell us that. The extent of your injuries were... severe, sir."

Her hesitance to explain in further detail did not sit well with him. At first, it instilled the same response he had just experienced literally minutes ago. His heartbeat started to speed up, and his breath started to grow short. However, he had just recovered from a small panic attack, and he had no desire to go through that again. He closed his eyes as he focused on his breathing again. He allowed himself to enjoy the momentary peace he created for himself.

  
His next question, 'severe how?' died on his lips. No, he didn't want to ask Dr. Ziegler this; he wanted to find out for himself, and on his own time. When he was ready, he slowly looked down at his body. At first glance nothing seemed to be worse for wear. His chest was covered with a standard hospital gown, but he didn't need eyes to feel that nothing was amiss. His left arm looked pale and was riddled with scars, but nonetheless seemed healthy.

  
He tested his left arm, trying to discover what state his muscles were in. It felt a little weak, but he assumed that was to be expected after lying in a bed for six straight months. At a second glance, he could see how abnormally thin it actually looked from muscle degradation. He was sure that physical therapy would be needed to recover it fully.

  
He then looked at his right hand, only to find that it wasn’t a hand at all. Instead what he found haunted him, sending another spike of panic racing through his nerves. His right hand, no, his _entire arm_ was completely gone. In its place was a sleek white metal prosthetic which began at his shoulder. The area where the prosthetic and flesh met had been bandaged up, probably in an attempt to hide how extensive the prosthetic ran.

He needed to know. Immediately he brought his left hand up to the bandages and started to tug away. Dr. Ziegler hadn’t expected this, apparently, as she jumped to take his hand away from the bandages. She stood up from her seat and bent over him, arms already grabbing at his weakened arm.

“Don’t mess around with it, you’ll only hurt yourself.” Dr. Ziegler said.

“Doctor.” He said, and he could hear the rush of sorrow in his voice. He felt close to tears, and he did not bother to hide his feelings in front of the doctor. Dr. Ziegler stared at him, taken aback by how sad he looked. Her fingers dropped his arm, but they hovered above, ready to grab again. “Please.”

She could see how horrid this was for him, and he watched as her expression slowly matched his. He watched as her eyes began to water as she debated whether to allow him this right. Eventually she surrendered, and she sat back down in her seat as she took her head in both hands. From the way her back arched and twitched slightly, he knew Dr. Ziegler was incredibly upset.

“Just be careful.” She said through hitched breaths.

He didn’t need any more encouragement. He ripped away at the layers. It proved to be difficult when he realized that his remaining hand had trouble pulling and tugging after six months of no use. His fingers were growing tired, but he was determined to see this through. But after a few minutes, he came to the painful realization that it was hopeless.

Suddenly, there was a pair of scissors in his peripherals, wielded by a pair of graceful but experienced hands. Dr. Ziegler stood over him, her tears forgotten as she bent over and expertly cut through the gauze without incident. He stared at her as she worked.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered as she pulled the gauze away.

He helped her pull away the last remaining pieces, and he was met with a sight that unnerved him. The metal prosthetic had been grafted into his skin; the transition was almost seamless, only marred by the ugly scars left over from its surgery. But what had scared him the most was that at first glance, there appeared to be no way to remove the prosthetic.

He hesitantly touched the prosthetic. It felt cool to the touch, and the sensation sent a shiver down his spine. He felt between the nooks and crannies of the arm, but then pulled his fingers away in fear of pinching them. He bent forward, which required most of his remaining strength, and grabbed the metal hand. He brought it back to his chest, and he felt how heavy the prosthetic weighed compared to his real arm.

He played around with the fingers, trying to get a sense for what this meant for him. He had no arm; an _entire limb_ was completely missing. He should honestly be more freaked out about this, but he blamed it on the overwhelming shock of the entire situation. He felt numb, like he was in a bad dream, and no matter what happened he could not wake up from it.

“Here. Let me see it.” Dr. Ziegler said, bringing his attention away from the prosthetic.

She reached over and grabbed the arm, pulling it out of his grasp and raising it above his head. He watched as she pulled back a hidden panel in the arm’s underbelly and revealed a small dialpad. Dr. Ziegler pressed a series of numbers he couldn’t quite catch, and then some parts of his arm started to _glow_. The three circles on the shoulder, which he had assumed to be just decorative pieces, came to life with a bright green glow. He watched it, astonished.

“Try moving the arm now.” Dr. Ziegler ordered as she stepped away.

His first question would have been “how?”, as he had no earthly idea as to how he could move something that wasn’t part of his body. But he did not dare ask Dr. Ziegler this. She was watching him intently, waiting for him to do as he was told.  He brought his attention back to the arm, which now hung loosely by his side.

He tried to remember what it felt like to wiggle his right fingers.

At first, all he achieved was nothing but an exasperated sigh. This was not a surprise for him because he had expected nothing to happen. But after a little bit more encouraging from the doctor, he managed to twitch the thumb and index finger. The movement caught him off guard, and he even thought that it must have been a trick of his imagination. It _had_ to have been his imagination.

“Try it again.” Dr. Ziegler said.

He tried. And they twitched again; this time it took less effort. He tried again, and now it was every finger except his pinky finger. He continued to work at it, using up most of his concentration and energy just to learn how to control this new hand of his. He could barely make the hand into a fist, but from a desperate glance at Dr. Ziegler, he knew he had made more progress than she could have hoped for.

“This is good. The operation was a success.” Dr. Ziegler said. Judging by the relieved smile she gave him, he could tell that this had been troubling the doctor for some time now. “These were the best prosthetics we could afford at the time of your operation, and I am quite happy to see that at least one is working at full capacity.”

Immediately the relieved smile she had been wearing gave way to one of horror. She realized her mistake too late.

At least this one. _At least this one_.

Those words echoed through his ears.

“More?!” That was the only word he had been able to choke out through his distressed cry.

What more had been lost?! What more could he possibly have to lose?

He felt like he was at his breaking point. No, he had been at his breaking point when he learned about how long he had been comatose. He still hadn't recovered from the shock of learning about the fate of his right arm. He didn't know how much more he could take in a single day before he ended up a completely broken mess. And yet here they were, pushing the envelope further and further.

He knew he looked desperate for answers, yet Dr. Ziegler was frozen in shock and unable to answer him. But on instinct her eyes darted to the blanket covering him up. His eyes followed her line of sight, and he felt his heart plummet. He made the horrible realization why his legs were feeling particularly numb. 

Finally Dr. Ziegler found her voice. "No, don't!"

He didn't listen to her. In one swift motion, he tore off the blanket, pulling it down onto the ground by Dr. Ziegler's feet. And then he pulled off the sheet as well, which finally revealed the other prosthetics Dr. Ziegler not so subtly mentioned. He gave out a startled, desperate sob as he brought his left hand up to his face. He wiped at his eyes and nose, wiping away the tears and snot that were falling freely.

His legs. 

Oh god, his legs were gone.

Instead, there was a pair of prosthetic metal legs in their place, similar in build and design of his newly acquired right arm. He paled when he noticed that the sleek white metal started somewhere underneath his medical gown and it travelled all the way down to his feet. He couldn't see where he ended and they began. He felt like he was going to be sick; he wished he had never woken up from his coma.

Without worrying about whether he was wearing any underwear, he lifted the medical gown, bringing it up to his chest. He saw that the prosthetics ended below his pelvic region. And just like the arm, they looked like they had been surgically grafted into the remaining, scarred flesh.

There would be no way to take them off.

His sobs rang through him, shaking his entire core. He couldn't keep still, every movement was jittery. Dr. Ziegler tried her best to comfort him, but in his emotional state he just pushed her away with what remaining strength he had. He could see her heartbroken expression, but he didn't care. Finally after a few minutes, Dr. Ziegler stood up and left the room. However she hadn't gone very far, as he could still see her white, misshapen silhouette through the door's frosted glass window.

At least she understood that he needed to be alone. He needed this time to come to terms with what had happened to him, to what had become of his life. And what this meant for his future.

How he wished he was still in that damn coma. 

He exhausted what little was left of his energy crying his heart out. Sometime after Dr. Ziegler left, he had no trouble falling into sleep. However, it was a restless sleep, and it did little to help him escape reality. When he awoke, he felt even more tired than before, and what was left of his original body felt incredibly sore and stiff.

He hesitantly opened his eyes, unsure of what he expected. He quickly spotted Dr. Ziegler, who was sitting on the couch on the opposite side of the room. She held a newly acquired newspaper in her hand, but she wasn't even looking at it. Instead her eyes were on her feet, unblinking and unmoving. She looked just as troubled and tired as he felt. Her hair hung limp now, and her face looked pale and tired after the stress from a terribly long day. This was just as hard for her as it was for him.

Well, tough shit. She hadn't woken up to find that all but one of her limbs had been severed off and substituted with synthetic replacements.

Slowly, he turned his head towards the window. The bright blue sky was gone, and it was replaced with the changing colors of a distant sunset he couldn't see from this angle. In the lower left corner shone a brilliant shade of orange and pink, which contrasted the violet and dark blue above it. The pair of skyscrapers were currently lit up, contributing to the effort of hiding the nighttime's stars. 

The day was almost over. He must have slept for a couple hours at least.

His attention shifted to the voices outside the hospital room. Despite the dying day, and how visiting hours must have been over, he could hear a pair of voices talking in hushed but urgent whispers. At first thought, he wondered if they were some of his friends and family, who finally wanted to see him after six months of unconsciousness. But when he tried to name potential people, no one important came to mind. He didn't think he had any family to call his own.

He felt restless. He tried to sit up, but he only managed to feel the extent of how sore he was. He let out a pained groan, which finally brought Dr. Ziegler out of her stupor. Her head snapped up, and she locked her eyes onto his gaze. Her expression was full of dread and regret.

"I'm sorry." She suddenly whispered.

He didn't want to forgive her just yet. He was too angry to.

"Help me up." He grunted. He had had enough lying around for now.

Dr. Ziegler nodded, unfazed by his grumpy tone of voice. At least she understood why he was so angry. She stood up and made her way to his cot. She pressed a few buttons on the cot's console and steadily the upper half of the bed began to rise. It stopped after a few seconds, allowing just enough of an angle for him to be sitting comfortably in bed.

Dr. Ziegler left after that, but promised to return with some assortment of food. He didn't argue with her; he was hungry and more than ready to rip the iv out of his left arm. But that would be impossible, as he still had little to no control over the prosthetic arm. 

As he waited for the doctor's return, he practiced with it again. He really had nothing better to do with his time. He was still only able to form a semi-closed fist, but he had been able to lift the hand slightly, which he accepted as a small success in itself. If anything in this situation could be called a success.

Dr. Ziegler eventually did return, holding a plastic tray in one hand. She set it down in his lap, and then sat down in the chair beside the bed.

There wasn't much there, but he doubted that the hospital cafeteria had been open this late. There was a juice box, a bag of pretzels, a plastic container of orange slices, and a large stale chocolate chip cookie. He doubted that the cookie was standard dinner for patients, and he wondered briefly if Dr. Ziegler was trying to get in his good graces by bribing him.

"Thank you." He eventually muttered as he reached for the juice box.

She waited for him while he ate. They didn't speak, and for that he was grateful. He took his time, savoring each bite that he took. It seemed his body had forgotten the taste of real food and it desperately wanted more just to remember. He finished the meal in peaceful silence. He hadn't realized how empty his stomach had felt, and the sudden introduction of food into his system had a marvelous effect on how he felt. Within minutes, he wasn't as grumpy, or as weak and tired.

After a few more moments of silence, he spoke up. "Is there anything else you haven't told me?"

Dr. Ziegler averted her eyes again. 

"... I'll be right back."

She stood up and made her way towards the room's sole door.  She opened it slightly, but made no move to leave the room. Instead, she only poked her head out just enough to speak with whoever was waiting outside the room. The pair of voices he heard earlier stopped their conversation instantly.

"He's ready to see you now, Jack." He heard Dr. Ziegler say softly.

A gruff voice answered her. "I'll be right with you."

The door opened larger, and a man holding a briefcase followed Dr. Ziegler into the room. He took in the stranger with a steady gaze, unsure of what was about to happen. This new man was old, possibly in his early fifties if he went with the graying blonde hair. The man had a stern and grumpy disposition, and it almost matched the faint pair of facial scars that ran over the corner of his mouth and over the bridge of his nose. He instantly reminded him of a war veteran. 

He was certain that the man was no doctor; he was not wearing a lab coat and did not look like he was the caregiver type. Instead, this man wore a slightly ragged but still expensive looking black suit underneath a dark blue windbreaker. His eyes traveled down and stopped at the man's belt. Strapped to his belt were a pistol and its holster. Beside that was a fastened, gleaming badge.

It was a cop. 

The man cleared his throat before he spoke up. "My name is Special Agent Jack Morrison, I'm with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. There's... There's a lot we need to talk about."

"… Hello?" He greeted Agent Morrison hesitantly. Why was an FBI agent interested in him? He decided to be blunt, because if he wasn’t then no one else would be. "What does the FBI want with me?"

Agent Morrison raised an eyebrow at his question, but that was the only hint of surprise the older man would give him. Morrison's attention quickly shifted to the briefcase he held in his hands. He set the briefcase down on the bed, trying his best to avoid the prosthetic legs hidden underneath. Morison opened the briefcase, and then he pulled out a Manila folder. Morrison flipped through the folder, his eyes skimming through the stapled papers, trying to find something specific.

"Six months ago, on May 5th at 2:43 am, two patrolling OCPD officers were called in to investigate a suspicious noise in the Copperstone district of Overlook Coast, California. When they arrived at the scene, they found you. You were barely clinging to life." Morrison stated. He paused as he flipped over to another page. "Somehow, despite how severe your injuries were, they managed to save you.”

Agent Morrison paused as he flipped through the folder again. Morrison grabbed a photo out of the folder and held it in front of him. He took it in his arm and held it in front of his face. It was a photo of an old warehouse, which was badly in need of a paint job and some replacement windows. On the side of the warehouse was a small logo: _Marigold’s Shipping Co._ He looked back up at Agent Morrison, who had been waiting to see what his reaction was.

“You were brought to this hospital, and while Dr. Ziegler was performing miracles, this case fell into my jurisdiction.” Agent Morrison said. He took the photo and placed it back into the folder. “If you want me to catch the person who did this to you, I need your help. If you’re able to, I need you to answer some difficult questions."

For the longest moment, he just sat in that bed. It was difficult trying to process what the FBI agent had just told him. Most of what Agent Morrison said confused him. He turned to look at Dr. Ziegler, hoping for her to give him an explanation.

“Who did what to me? I thought you said I had been in an accident?” He asked her. The last time he checked, an accident didn’t usually involve a perpetrator.

Agent Morrison turned to look at Dr. Ziegler, giving her a confused look. Dr. Ziegler grew visibly uncomfortable from both of the men’s stares and fidgeted in her spot. She played with her hands nervously as she stepped forward.

“No, it was no accident.” Dr. Ziegler stated as she shook her head. “Someone… butchered you. And from what Agent Morrison has told me, they left you alive on purpose. But only just long enough for someone to find you. I’m sorry; I thought shielding you from the truth would make this easier.”

Someone had tried to kill him? And they almost succeeded in it. They _should_ have succeeded in doing it. But why couldn’t he remember any of this; it felt like something he should have remembered.

“I… I can’t remember anything. I’m sorry, Agent Morrison.” He said.

“Is this common, Angela?” Agent Morrison turned to face Dr. Ziegler.

She was quiet for a moment. “It is quite possible that the trauma from living through such an experience made him block out the whole confrontation. Just imagine Jack, if you had to live through such a horrible experience, wouldn’t you want to suppress it?”

Agent Morrison grunted, “I can understand it, but that’s not going to help me in the slightest.”

Agent Morrison grumbled some more, but he wasn’t quite able to hear what he was saying. Agent Morrison returned to the briefcase and he pawed through its contents. He brought out another folder, this one was stamped “Confidential” in red ink.  The FBI agent turned to look at him

“I have some photos from the crime scene. Showing them to you may jog your memory. But photos some may be disturbing. Would it be alright if I showed them to you?” Agent Morrison asked him.

No. He didn’t want to see them, but he also wanted to remember _something_.

“Yes.”

Agent Morrison nodded his head and stepped towards his side again. Morrison set the folder down in his waiting lap. Hesitantly, he opened it up, and was met with several official looking crime scene photos. He almost stopped looking; maybe blissful ignorance would be best. But at the same time, he wanted to know what had happened.

The first photo was of the crime scene. There was a bunch of yellow caution tape that surrounded the inside of a large open room. A few figures stood in the blocked out space, all wearing blue windbreakers similar to Agent Morrison’s, with large yellow letters on the back reading FBI. There were huddled around the ground, but from this angle he couldn’t tell what they were looking at.

He flipped the photo over. The next one over showed what the FBI agents had been standing over. It was a large pool of dark blood, and he knew that it must have been his own.  He had to turn his head away, disgusted and horrified at the sight. A shudder escaped him as he flipped over to the next one.

The next one was of the nearby wall. It was also covered in blood. He flipped to the next one.

The next set was all evidence based photographs. Agent Morrison explained to him that the most unusual part of the crime scene, save for how the would-be-murderer almost killed him, was that there were little to no evidence. And what they had boggled the entire FBI team. If he was learning anything, it was how this case was anything but normal.

“What’s this then?” He asked, glancing up at Agent Morrison.

Agent Morrison took the photo in his hand. He held it up to the light before returning it to him. He looked at it again, perplexed by the broken metal object that had been taken as evidence.

“It’s a broken throwing star, like the ones used in B-rate movies about ninjas. My analysts have told me it’s called a shuriken.” Agent Morrison told him. The FBI agent pulled out another photo, this time of the room’s surrounding area. He pointed to the catwalk above. “We found this wedged over here. It’s the only weapon we found at the crime scene. Are you familiar with it?”

He shook his head. “Not really. Should I be?”

At that, Agent Morrison looked baffled. His next sentence came out in a jumble, as if he was embarrassed to give him his answer. “Well, I had assumed that, uh… um. God, I don't think I should just... I guess I should have asked you this first: are you Japanese?”

Was he Japanese? The question caught him off guard. He thought about it for a second, but came up with nothing. He didn’t know, which disturbed him slightly. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized he couldn’t remember what he looked like.

“I don’t know. Am I?” He asked, his expression telling both Dr. Ziegler and Agent Morrison how confused he felt.

At that, Agent Morrison turned to give Dr. Ziegler a look. She shared his eye contact before simply shrugging, completely helpless to give him the clue he was looking for. Agent Morrison turned away and brought his head in a hand, and he let out a tired, discouraged sigh.

“I should have asked you this half an hour ago. Get it together, Jack.” Agent Morrison muttered under his breath. He finally brought his head up and shared a steady gaze with him. “Son, do you know you’re name?”

For a few seconds he was at a loss for words as his brain tried to process Agent Morrison's question. That should have been an easy answer. But when he went to open his mouth to speak, all he could do was let out a strangled noise when he realized he didn't have an answer. He paused, ignoring the other’s questioning looks. He should have known his name.

_He should know_.

“I’m—” Again his words came to strangled stop. He didn’t know. He didn’t know his own name. He had forgotten.

“I don’t know who I am.”


	3. Chapter 3

He had trouble sleeping that night.

He was exhausted, both mentally and physically, but sleep would not come for him. All he could do was sit in bed and stare out the room’s only window. The lights from the city outside were illuminating the entire room in a sheet of cool light. It was not the lights that kept him awake, rather they only acted as a distraction from his crueler thoughts.

He had no name. No memories to call his own. His body was a disgusting, fractured mess of metal and flesh. Whoever he was before the accident was gone now, in both parts mind and body. He had lost everything, and it was the constant fear that perhaps there _was_ something left to lose that haunted him, keeping him awake. And the only way he’d find out what that something was, would be when it was too late.

His mind was split; he was both desperate to regain his memories, and to abandon them altogether.

By Dr. Ziegler’s orders, extensive tests were taken the following day.

He spent most of the day in a wheelchair, where he was escorted and shown around the rest of the hospital by Dr. Ziegler. He was wheeled down to a different floor of the hospital, and out of recovery ward that had been his home for the past six months. His body felt stiff and weak after spending months in one bed, but he did not regret leaving his room. After last night, it had felt more like a prison cell than a place of refuge.

They spent hours performing several medical examinations. He went from from MRI to CAT scan for hours before Dr. Ziegler finally concluded that his memory loss stemmed from some form of Retrograde Amnesia. The words clung to him, and while he had no idea what the term retrograde meant here, he had already known from last night that he was an amnesiac. Yet hearing it officially stated in medical jargon he couldn’t quite understand somehow made it worse.

Dr. Ziegler suspected that it was more than likely caused by the severe head wound he had received on the night of the attempted murder (yet another injury the good doctor had kept from him until it was relevant to their current predicament). The injury had been the primary suspect as to why he had fallen into a coma, so connecting the two wasn’t that far of a stretch.

Dr. Ziegler did her best to assure him that Retrograde Amnesia was a common occurrence for other people in similar circumstances. However, she did pause when she affirmed that she doubted his memories would ever return. It did little to comfort him.

“While this is unexpected, it isn’t going to be the end of the world.” Dr. Ziegler said to him after she gave him the prognosis. “Life will go on, and so will you.”

He didn’t believe her.

Dr. Ziegler noticed his doubt. “Think of this as a new beginning, then. A clean slate to start anew.”

It’s not like he had much of a choice at this point.

\---

Agent Morrison returned to the hospital two days later, now in tow with two of his close colleagues. Their visit was unexpected, but in truth he was quite pleased to see the FBI agent’s return. Thankfully they were meeting in the morning, when Dr. Ziegler was absent to perform her other duties in the hospital. He was relieved she was not here for this; while he should have been grateful to the woman for saving his life, he couldn’t stop himself from hating her for what she turned him into.

They arrived early in the morning, just before 10. Agent Morrison announced their arrival with a hard knock on the door’s frosted window. Before he could even ask who it was, Agent Morrison barged in. In his hand he held a buttered and cream cheesed bagel and a cup of steaming coffee in the other.

“Hey kid. Here, take this.” Agent Morrison said as he handed him the bagel. Morrison took a sip of his hot coffee and then he cleared his throat. “What are they feeding you here? You look as skinny as a twig.”

He barely managed to give the special agent a confused thank you before the others arrived. He watched the two newcomers curiously as he bit into the warm bagel, and then he involuntarily let out a whimper of delight. Oh god, how he missed having fresh food, and not the stale stuff from the hospital’s cafeteria. He hadn’t realized he had forgotten how wonderful real food tasted like.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Agent Morrison said as he gave him a small smirk. “If you don’t mind, my colleagues and I have some things we need to go over with you.”

He simply nodded his head. “Okay, go ahead.”

They introduced themselves quick enough. One of the newcomers was Specialist Mei-Ling Zhou, a small round woman who was nothing but soft smiles and kind patience. In his opinion she didn’t look much like a cop, but Mei explained to him that her work was mostly behind a computer or in a lab; she ware rarely ever out in the field. She was nice enough, and he appreciated her genuine kindness.

The other newcomer was one of the police officers who had found him, who had been assigned as a liaison officer for the FBI team sometime after he was hospitalized.

“I’m Officer Ana Amari.” She introduced herself as she took his left hand into a shake. “It is… good to see that you are well.”

She paused as he looked over him, eyes searching for something unbeknownst to him. He watched as she took in his right arm, and there was a flicker of haunting fear and regret on her face, but it was instantly replaced with a sliver of self-doubt. He caught her gaze, and he could see the dulled dread in the dark of her eyes. He realized that she had been haunted by his fate, and hadn’t known of what had become of him since she last saw him six months ago.

To see him again, wide eyed and nervous of the world left for him, it probably gave her some of the relief she desperately needed.

“Thank you for saving my life.” He whispered quietly as he freed his left hand. She simply nodded, and then stepped back. He suddenly decided to ask her something that had been bugging him. “Please, can you tell me anything? About who I was before?”

Officer Amari shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t know. You were only conscious long enough to beg for our help. When we asked for your name… you…”

She trailed off, and then looked away. It was clear that Officer Amari was still troubled after what she had witnessed.

“I- of course. Thank you anyway.” He said, slightly disappointed. Perhaps he shouldn’t have hoped for an answer.

After introductions ended, Agent Morrison was quick to explain why they had visited him. While there hadn’t been much progress made on the case since his last visit, which was unsurprising, he informed him that they had another reason for setting up this meeting. Apparently, it was something equally as important as catching his attacker.

“We’ve been keeping a lot from you, and I apologize. But at the time that’s what we thought what was best.” Agent Morrison said. “I can see now that it wasn’t what was best for _you_.”

“Wait, is there more I don’t know about?” He said, his bagel suddenly forgotten.

It felt like his heart had stopped beating at the subtle implication. Honestly at this point he shouldn’t have been surprised.Suddenly the FBI team’s visit was not as much of a blessing as he had thought it would’ve been.

“Sadly, yes.” Mei said. At least she looked genuinely upset when she spoke.

He was really starting to hate being kept in the dark.

“Really, what else have you been keeping from me?” He asked, exasperated. He let his imagination wander; Had they withheld information about his attacker in fear of scaring him even more? Or was it something medical, like replacing all of his internal organs with motorized parts? Or was he actually secretly the son of some demented, wanted criminal? “What _else_ have you left out?”

Agent Morrison shared a quick look with Specialist Mei and Officer Amari. His own gaze traveled to the two women, and he could see a silent conversation occurring between the adults with only just the slights of their eyes. Finally, just when he was about to demand what they were keeping from him, Agent Morrison breathed out a heavy sigh.

“The world thinks you’re dead.” Morrison said bluntly. “On the official records, the John Doe from the night of the murder passed away from his injuries shortly after arriving at St. Mercy’s General Hospital. Only a few select people know the truth.”

“What? Why?!” 

“Easy there, we did it to protect you.” Mei spoke up again, trying her best to calm him with a steady tone.

How could that possibly protect him?! He was livid that they had already decided his fate. Ever since he woke up, it’s felt like everyone thought they knew what was best for him, making decisions without consulting him. He was growing tired from it all; he didn’t know how much he could take.

But then he paused for a moment, allowing for some rational thought to return to him. He mentally worked through this new piece of information, taking his time with it. He was sure the FBI had a good reason to lie to the media and officials about his fate, but that didn’t make him any happier about it.

“But what if I have a family? What if they’ve been mourning me for the past six months?” He asked, grasping for anything that could be used to rebuke them. To make them look back and realize their mistakes. “Don’t they have the right to know I’m not dead?”

Again there was silence. Finally Officer Amari stepped forward, crossing her arms as she did so.

“Look, kid. If you did have family, they would have come forward. If they had contacted the OCPD about a missing person, we would’ve been able to make the connection back to you.” Officer Amari said. “No one came forward, so we have to assume you have no family.”

“Which actually works in our favor.”

It had been Agent Morrison that had made the last remark. He watched as Officer Amari gave Agent Morrison a scathing glare, which made him feel slightly better in a petty revenge sort of way. Agent Morrison returned Officer Amari’s glare with a warning look, only to have Officer Amari throw up her hands in frustration before she lurked towards the back of the room angrily.

But as much as he enjoyed discovering the two’s workplace relationship, it wasn’t helping him at all.

Agent Morrison ignored the OCPD officer and focused on finishing his morning coffee. He tipped the cup back before tossing it in the far trash bin. Agent Morrison then came over by his side.

“Look, whoever wanted you dead, they went through a lot of effort to make sure you went out in the most painful way possible.” Agent Morrison explained, waving his hands around as he spoke in an attempt to clarify how serious the situation was. “I have _no doubt_ in my mind that if word got out you survived, they would make a second attempt on your life.”

That… that actually made a lot of sense. Any retort he could have come up with died in his throat. He had seen the crime scene photos for himself. And while Agent Morrison hadn’t allowed him to read the descriptions and statements made by those who had arrived at the scene, he knew by just looking at Officer Amari’s suddenly ashen face that it was far worse than anything he could have imagined.

He didn’t like it, but the FBI team was probably right. He sunk into his seat and chewed his bagel angrily.

Agent Morrison acknowledged his irritable surrender with a stiff nod. “It had been a tough decision, but even Dr. Ziegler was on board.”

He managed to hide a small scoff from the federal agents. Was that statement supposed to comfort him?

“So what happens now?” He asked, averting his eyes away from the group as he stared out the window.

“We need to think of your future.” Specialist Mei spoke up, raising one hand to get both of their attentions. “That’s why I’m actually here today. I’m here to talk to you about creating your new identity.”

New identity? At first that statement had bewildered him, but then he considered it. His old identity was completely gone; even if his memories did return, it wouldn’t be safe for him to return to his old life. Not until his would-be killer was incarcerated. And from what he knew about the state of his case, there was little chance of that happening anytime soon, or at all.

So the FBI team had to seek an alternate route to ensure his safety: create a completely new life for him. He realized that he couldn’t spend the rest of his life in this hospital; eventually he’d have to be discharged. That in itself was a scary thought.

He needed a new life, one that was approved by Agent Morrison and his team.

"So... you're saying like Witness Protection?" He hesitantly asked.

"That is _exactly_ what we are saying." Specialist Mei said, nodding her head.

He let out a defeated sigh before saying, “What kind of Identity were you thinking?”

\---

His name was Kento Franklin Okamoto. He was 22 years old and still trying to figure out his place in the world after a tragic car accident.

He was the only child of Hideo Okamoto and Daphne Okamoto, née Greene. His father was a second generation American with close ties back to his family in Japan. He worked as an accountant for a growing business in Overlook Coast’s Financial District. His mother’s family was originally from Ireland, and she worked as a part time foreign language professor at a community college. The two had met in college when they studied abroad in Hanamura, Japan. They had dated for 3 years before marrying, and he had been born less than a year later.

He grew up in Illinois. The small family had lived in a quaint, rural town half an hour south of Chicago until his mother had received a job offer in Overlook Coast two years ago. Despite the state of the city’s growing crime rate, she ultimately decided to take the job. Since then they lived there, within the city's limits.

Six months ago had been his father’s 48thbirthday. As a present, he had taken his parents out to eat. By the time they left the restaurant, it was late at night. On their way home, a drunk driver ran a red light while speeding, hitting their car. His parents did not survive the crash. Neither did the drunk driver.

Despite the impossible odds, he survived, but just barely and not without his own scars.

His family had not been rich; all of his inheritance was used in building his prosthetics and paying hospital bills, leaving him virtually nothing. He had no family left, and nowhere to go once he was discharged from the hospital.

Before, he did not have a name. And now he was Kento. Kento Franklin Okamoto.

This was who he was now.

\---

By the end of the week, Kento had just started getting used to his new name. And as time went on, he grew accustomed to answering Dr. Ziegler or the nurses when they called for him. Even once Dr. Ziegler had managed to yank his attention away from a book by calling for that name. She had seemed pleasantly surprised at his reaction, and then allowed for him to return to his reading.

Yet it still felt foreign to him.

Getting used to his new name wasn’t the only challenge Kento encountered after the FBI team’s departure. Only a few short hours had passed since he said goodbye to the FBI team when Dr. Ziegler arrived, informing him that it was time to officially start his physical therapy.

They performed the first few sessions in his room. For the past few days Kento had been practicing with his new prosthetic arm on his own volition, but never quite as extensively as Dr. Ziegler had wanted him to. Each day their exercises encompassed Kento spending hours grabbing small and delicate objects before lifting them or bringing them to his chest. It took all of his concentration, and every task usually ended in total frustration. And all the while he would be under Dr. Ziegler's ever constant gaze.

Kento quickly learned that the most difficult aspect of his physical therapy was how unnatural the new arm felt to him.

It was not alive, yet somehow the prosthetic had a built in sensor system. On the first day of therapy, Dr. Ziegler had briefly explained how the arm worked, but most of what she said had confused him. All Kento knew was that somehow the arm was connected to his nervous system and surrounding muscles. This enabled it to behave as if it had been his original arm.

But it wasn’t a perfect replacement. Yes, Kento could “feel” objects when he made contact with them, but he had no sense of touch. He could not tell an object’s texture or temperature, just whether or not they were in the palm of his hand.

His other arm was not ignored. When Kento grew either too exhausted or too frustrated at learning how to manipulate his advanced prosthetic, Dr. Ziegler would have him work on re-strengthening the muscles in the other. The only time constraint they had with his left arm was how fast it became stiff and sore from their practices. Slowly but surely, his left arm was regaining strength.

They hadn't yet started working on his legs. Together both Dr. Ziegler and Kento had decided that it would be best to learn how to control his arm before working on the other prosthetics.

Due to this, Kento had been given a wheelchair to help him around the hospital. As soon as he had grown adept with the prosthetic arm, and had gotten Dr. Ziegler's approval, Kento seized the chance to explore with his newfound freedom.

Now Kento spent most of his free time roaming down the hospital’s hallways and, if the weather was nice, outside in the hospital’s small courtyard. Kento spent every chance he could in the courtyard, basking in the sun and enjoying the relatively fresh air. It was currently mid-November, but the Californian heat kept the area considerably warm.

Outside, he could hear Overlook Coast. He could hear the city's traffic and the low rumble of its underground metro system. Sometimes he could even hear its denizens talking or shouting over the Hospital's tall walls. It was the only taste of the outside world he could get after waking from his coma. And Kento enjoyed every second of it.

Dr. Ziegler knew of his daily excursions to the courtyard, but she never brought up during their talks. Kento was grateful for that.

Two full weeks passed this way.

But on the first day of the third week, Kento made his first request.

“Dr. Ziegler, can I ask you something?” Kento asked, pausing in his exercise for his prosthetic arm.

They were practicing something much more advanced than usual today. While Kento wanted to ask Dr. Ziegler something, he had also wanted a small distraction to give him enough time to recuperate and regain his focus.

In his right hand he held a sharpened pencil, which was hovering just above a small note pad. Early on in the physical therapy, Kento had made the discovery that he was unfortunately right handed. Ever since then Dr. Ziegler was determined to teach him how to write again. He had just finished writing out a very sloppy sentence without Dr. Ziegler’s aid. It wasn’t the prettiest thing in the world; the letters were too jerky and it wasn’t in a straight line, but Kento knew in time his writing would improve.

Dr. Ziegler looked up from her tablet. She had been reading out sentences for him to write. Her reading glasses were slightly askew, and she fixed them before setting the tablet on the nearby table.

“Of course, what is it Kento?” Dr. Ziegler said.

He grew silent for a few seconds. He set the pencil down and pushed the notepad away. That seemed to catch Dr. Ziegler’s full attention. He felt her gaze on him, and he looked down to his prosthetic hand.

“… Can you get me a mirror?” He finally requested.

Dr. Ziegler fell into a small pause of silence as she took Kento's request into consideration. He didn't have to look at her to know she was surprised. And Kento didn't want to know what she thought of his sudden request.

Ever since he woke, Kento had avoided and outright refused to look at his reflection. Kento realized his own face would be foreign to him, but that wasn't why he had been avoiding his reflection. He didn't want to go through the shock and disgust of realizing he had a scarred face. If he must be honest with himself, he was scared at the possibly of what he'd find.

Fortunately there hadn’t been any mirrors in his hospital room, and Kento had tried his best to avoid the public restrooms within the building.

But now Kento was ready. He'd eventually see his reflection at some point; it would be highly improbable that he'd go through the rest of his life without accidentally glancing at a mirror. Best to get it done and over with.

And despite how Dr. Ziegler had warned him about how small the chances of his memories ever returning were, Kento couldn't help but think that if he saw his own face it would make him remember at least something. Even if it was just his real name, that would be more than anything he could have hoped for.

"I... are you sure Kento?" Dr. Ziegler asked, taken aback by the random request. She knew of his aversion to mirrors.

Kento nodded his head. "I'm ready."

Dr. Ziegler needed no further convincing, but she still left the room with a backwards glance. Kento could see the concern on her face, but elected to ignore it. This was his choice, after all. And despite how he was starting to give second thoughts on this, he brushed them away when the doctor returned.

In her hands she held a square plate mirror. It must have served some form of purpose for surgery, as it had been marked _Room S14_ with black sharpie in one of the corners. Dr. Ziegler came over and deftly placed the mirror in Kento's waiting hands.

"Don't worry," She gave him a small, encouraging whisper, "it's not as bad as you think it is."

He held the mirror up.

He stared at his face, his gaze locking onto his reflection's pair of eyes. Kento could see the visible shock of seeing his own face, and he mentally told himself to close his half open mouth. Just as Kento expected, he was staring at a stranger. But that stranger was himself.

Kento had known since the day he woke up that he was from Asian descent; Agent' Morrison's questions and his own subtle accent had been enough to confirm that for him. He knew he was Japanese; that hadn't been the surprise. What had surprised him was how...

... well, to be blunt, his eyebrows were incredibly bushy. 

He should have felt embarrassed to say that had been the first thing he noticed about his face. But they were just too large. Kento felt like his eyebrows took up at least half of his forehead. And his unkempt hair wasn't fairing any better.  His old hair had been shaved off during lifesaving surgery six months ago, and it had been allowed to grow freely since then. Kento knew he was in a desperate need of a trim just to even the growth out.

He took in his other features as well. Kento brought the mirror up close to his face to see what color his eyes were and to memorize the shape of his nose and mouth. Kento ran his left hand across his cheekbones and jaw, trying to get a feel of their shape. He paused when he felt his fingers reach an indentation of a scar.

Kento studied his face in a new light. Dr. Ziegler had been right, out of all the possibilities; his face hadn't been too damaged. There was a variety of small scars that were placed around his cheeks and jaw line, but they were faint. If anything it looked like he had fallen face first into a thorn bush, with the thorns having been dragged across him with just enough pressure to pierce the skin.

There were similar scars that were scattered down and around his neck and collarbones. Their only difference from the ones on his face was that they were darker and deeper, showing the true nature of his injuries.

The most noticeable scar, however, was the one that sat just above his left temple. It was large and ugly; it traveled from there on his temple and up into his hairline. Tentatively, Kento parted his hair to see that the large scar was indeed visible between the dark strands. He could not see where it ended.

So this was the head wound that had caused his memory loss.He brought a finger up to it, feeling its uneven surface. At least it didn’t hurt.

Kento brought his hand down to his side. He gave his reflection one last good inspection, hoping that he'd remember at least something. A long moment passed before Kento let out a disappointed sigh.

Nope, nothing.

"Thank you, Dr. Ziegler." Kento said, his voice sounding fragile even to himself.

He held the mirror out for her. Dr. Ziegler took the mirror before setting it beside her long forgotten tablet. She sat down in her chair again, watching Kento as he suddenly started to weep from the crashing disappointment. Again the daunting fear and overwhelming helplessness of his situation had crumbled Kento's resolve. He had been holding himself up for so long, but the stress from this was too much.

"Here." Dr. Ziegler said, her voice barely audible as she handed him a box of tissues.

He took it without saying a word and brought a single tissue up to his face, dabbing away the tears. He tried his best to cry silently, but that only seemed to make his breakdown much more potent. Kento's body began to shake with his sobs, and eventually Dr. Ziegler hesitantly wrapped him into a hug.

She was crying herself. He could hear her sniffle and blink away her own tears as she rubbed his back soothingly. He clutched onto her, mentally begging her to never let go. Dr. Ziegler hated seeing her patient like this, and while Kento still had not forgiven her, he needed her reassuring touch. Kento was starving for positive attention, and he was scared of being left alone.

Kento did not know how much time had passed before he had finally calmed down. Eventually Dr. Ziegler pried herself away from his desperate hold. Her face was red and stained from her tears. She brought the back of her hand up and rubbed at her eyes again.

"Staying in this hospital is not doing you any good." Dr. Ziegler finally said.

Kento didn't answer her. He didn't know if he was able to at this point without breaking down again.

"We'll start on your legs tomorrow." She decided. "Hopefully by Christmas you can leave this place."

Kento sucked in a short breath; his emotions were still in turmoil. He had cried his heart out, but even the slightest misstep could send him spiraling down into an emotional hell again.

“Where can I go?” He asked through an involuntary shiver. He had no place to call home.

She contemplated his question.

“I’ll have a chat with Agent Morrison. He’ll find you someplace to stay.” Dr. Ziegler said after a moment’s time. She was nodding to herself; her decision was already made. “Don’t you worry. We’ll set this right.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case there is any confusion, the protagonist of this story is Genji. The name Kento is only temporary, and will probably only last through half of the story.


End file.
